As insignificant as the man was he did end up making the news. The victim of an unexplained house fire: mid-thirties, single father…that last bit wrenched something askew somewhere in the vicinity of the heart. I'm not that cold blooded that I didn't think of his son growing up without a father. In fact, he was an incredible father. I'm sure his headstone will say something to that nature.

What he wasn't, however, was faithful. If it wasn't an ex or an old flame from years before, it was a stripper or, toward the final months of our relationship, hookers in Oklahoma City. I'm not a scorned ex looking for revenge, however. I had made up my mind to leave and I don't recall shedding one tear over him. As soon as I had all my clothes and belongings out of his house I made plans to start over.

Thing is there was still so much of me that I abandoned in that house. Four years of hair was left behind: most my natural blonde that camouflaged against the carpet and neutral tone of the walls. He couldn't comb his hair without at least two strands getting stuck in the gel and hanging haphazardly across his eyes. I remembered him laughing at this first before he turned it into an attack on my personal hygiene.

The more he strayed in our relationship the more hair he seemed to find. First it was just a nuisance: clean clothes fresh from the drier and hidden against the collar of his dress shirts were knots of pale gold; the shower drain was constantly clogged with discarded strands, at least the ones that actually made it off the tile walls. I would find a strand or two in casseroles that I pulled from the oven, these of course he never knew about.

By the time I left I had balding patches at my temples and just above my ears. He was so shameless in his dejection after my leaving that I liked to imagine him gathering up the longest strands and fashioning a noose.

So when I heard the news of the fire I could only grin. Was it that he never removed the lint from the drier and the accumulation of my matted dregs sparked a flame? Did he attempt to erase me entirely by vacuuming the floors? Maybe my resilient strands choked the motor and stalled the belt, the friction igniting the tall pile carpet beneath.

If I were to sneak a peek at those charred remains, I guarantee a strand or two would be wound tight around his heart like a pair of infectious worms.

May he burn in hell, a hell made of my beautiful blonde hair.